Cold Comfort
by vicodin-vixens
Summary: It's cold at Mayfield and House asks a favour. Warning: Contains Slash. It's our thing, but it might not be yours. We can only wish we owned them.


Wilson looked around tiredly at the mess in the bedroom. There were clothes everywhere. On the floor, on the bed, drawers open and upended.

The bed was unmade. Books and magazines littered the dresser. Empty pill bottles cascaded from the overturned wastebasket.

All of it untouched since he'd gone.

Wilson just hadn't been able to face it.

He'd simply closed the door and slept on the couch. For two weeks. He hadn't been home. Being anywhere else just felt _wrong_.

He might have left it like that indefinitely, a little shrine to denial. _If I don't see it, it didn't happen. If I don't clean it up, none of this is real._

But he'd gotten the call that morning and he couldn't avoid it anymore.

The air had been stale when he'd opened the door, but, more than anything, it smelt like _him_.

Essence of House. Distilled.

Wilson felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. He sat down on the edge of the bed that he refused to sleep in alone and took a shaky breath.

God, if House could see this he'd never hear the end of it.

But House couldn't see it, and Wilson felt entitled to a little breakdown. He'd earned it.

He took another breath and pulled himself together.

But not now. Now he had things to do.

Wilson took off his coat and threw it over the chair in the corner. He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

Somehow he was always the one left cleaning up the mess.

Slowly but surely he worked his way through the disorder; sifting clean clothes from dirty ones, folding and hanging and tidying. He stripped the bed and started a new load of laundry.

It was oddly soothing, bringing some small semblance of order to House's chaos.

It was familiar. Reassuring, in it's way.

And reassurance was thin on the ground recently. He'd take it where he could find it.

Wilson remade the bed the same way he always did. The same way they had taught him the summer he was 16 and had worked at that Holiday Inn to pay for a car. The same way that House mocked mercilessly every time he saw it.

Smoothing an imaginary crease out of the duvet, he looked around the room once more.

Order had been restored, and Wilson wanted to cry.

When Amber had died he had been angry.

So angry.

At God.

At himself.

At House.

Because if he could lose _her_, then he could lose _him_.

And despite everything; the pills, the shooting, the seemingly suicidal risk-taking, the reckless self-destruction, he'd never really allowed himself to believe that that was possible.

So, in his grief, he'd fled, unable to forgive House his sudden and overwhelming mortality.

He'd clung to that anger. Hidden behind it.

Until House's father's funeral, when he'd had nowhere left to hide.

And out it had come. All that anger, all that truth, had washed over them and all at once everything had changed.

And everything had stayed the same.

It was strange sometimes, and awkward, and more _right_ than Wilson had thought was possible.

Not that he'd ever say that to House. Things hadn't changed that much. House was still _House_, after all.

It had never been romance. How could it be? Wilson didn't care. He'd had romance; probably more than his share. He wanted honesty. And reality. And House had given him that.

Until House and reality had parted company.

When he'd lost Amber he had been angry.

This was worse. He was too terrified to be angry.

Wilson rubbed a hand over his face and looked at the clock. It was after eleven. He needed to finish up and get some sleep.

Tomorrow would be hard enough.

He took a duffel bag out of the closet and threw it on the bed, then pulled open the top right hand drawer of the dresser. His drawer, designated so about four months before.

What an uphill battle that had been.

_**"Too much commitment," House had said.**_

_**"It's a drawer, not a ring!"**_

_**"Slippery slope. Today it's a drawer, tomorrow it's monogrammed towels."**_

_**"Yes. You caught me. I've fiendishly registered us at Bed, Bath and Beyond under the names Greg and James Hilson."**_

House had capitulated in the end, leaving the drawer open and empty, allowing Wilson to stumble across it on his own. They had never discussed it again. It simply _was_.

The drawer never held much. Some socks, a few neatly folded pairs of underwear, t-shirts, sweats, an extra tie. Incidentals.

Tonight he was only looking for one thing.

And there it was. Right on top. His McGill sweatshirt.

Well, his _second_McGill sweatshirt.

The first had been bought at a campus store when he'd been a student. He'd practically lived in it for those four years. It was worn and comfortable, and had almost immediately been co-opted by his first wife when they'd gotten married.

He hadn't minded really. She had looked cute in it, and it had still been _his_. He'd been happy to share.

Right up until their marriage had ended 6 months after he'd started at Princeton-Plainsboro, and he'd discovered it missing after she'd moved out. It was the only thing he'd really minded losing.

_**House had been frustrated. "It **__**belongs**__** to **__**you**__**."**_

_**"I know that."**_

_**"So take it back!"**_

_**"I can't."**_

_**"Why the hell not? It's **__**yours**__**."**_

_**"She's......fragile. I hurt her. I can't- It's petty, House."**_

_**"Of course it's petty. Why do you think she took it?"**_

It had never come up again.

Eight months later House had been asked to speak at a Nephrology conference at McGill on the relative merits of scintigraphy. Wilson had recommended a good diner in the area and agreed to pick him up at the airport. Stacy had been out of town.

_**House had been quiet on the drive home and Wilson had chalked it up to jet lag, but he'd invited Wilson in for a beer nonetheless.**_

_**They'd sat drinking quietly for a while when House had reached into the the duffel bag at his feet and tossed something at Wilson.**_

_**"Here," he'd said, not making eye contact.**_

_**"What's this?"**_

_**House still refused to look at him, now intent on peeling the label from his bottle. "Lame conference swag. It's too small. Want another beer?"**_

_**He'd leapt up and disappeared quickly into the kitchen.**_

_**"It's getting late actually," Wilson had called. "I think I'll head home. Thanks for the-"**_

_**House stood in the kitchen doorframe clutching a second Budwiser. "Whatever. It was you or Goodwill."**_

_**"Goodnight House."**_

_**Wilson had worn it home that night, aware that he'd been given a gift, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with a sweatshirt.**_

They'd never spoken of that either.

Wilson pulled the shirt out of the drawer and held it up. It was a little worse for wear. Softened and faded by repeated washings, frayed at the collar, with a small hole in the left elbow.

This one had been his and his alone. Neither Bonnie nor Julie had ever so much as tried it on. Amber had advocated getting rid of it once and had unwittingly started their first fight. None of them had known it came from House, and Wilson had never seem any reason to mention it. It was his favourite, and that was enough.

He stuffed it into the duffel bag, followed by some of House's warmer socks and sweaters that he was sure he'd never seen House wear.

_**House had called him that morning.**_

_**"Wilson?"**_

_**He'd sounded tinny, and far away.**_

_**Wilson hadn't known what to say. There was too much. He said nothing.**_

_**"Hello? I can hear you breathing."**_

_**"Sorry. I'm here. Are you alright?"**_

_**"Obviously not, given my current living arrangements."**_

_**"I meant-"**_

_**House had sighed. "I know what you meant."**_

_**"I thought you weren't allowed phone calls for another week?"**_

_**"I'm not. Special dispensation. The Gestapo are breathing down my neck right now. I need a favour."**_

_**"What can I do?"**_

_**"It's cold."**_

_**Wilson had been thrown for a second. "What?"**_

_**House huffed in irritation. "It's **__**cold**__** here. **__**I'm**__** cold. I need you to bring me some stuff. You'll have to leave it at the Nurse's Station on my ward. No visitors for two more weeks."**_

_**Wilson had taken a deep breath to keep from falling completely apart. His **__**ward**__**. Oh, God. "What do you want me to bring?"**_

_**"Wool socks, sweaters, that McGill sweatshirt. Warm stuff."**_

_**He'd felt his eyes widen. "Tomorrow okay?"**_

_**"Yeah. I've gotta go."**_

_**"House, I-"**_

_**"I know."**_

Then he was gone. Nothing but a dial tone.

Wilson reached back into the duffel bag and pulled out the sweatshirt again. He folded it carefully and put it on top, then zipped the bag.

It was the closest thing to an 'I love you' that he was ever likely to get.

He'd take it.

Wilson turned the bedroom light off and shut the door behind him. Then he set the duffel bag down by the front door.

He changed his clothes and made up the couch, then he laid down to wait for morning.

Maybe he'd have his breakdown after he got home tomorrow.

He'd earned it.


End file.
